High Plains Promise (Love on the High Plains Book 2)

by Beaudelaire, Simone

  A soft, muffled sound shattered the silence of Allison's lonely vigil. Her eyes narrowed. You're dreaming, Allison. That, or grief has pushed you over the edge. It must have been a bird… or maybe a cat outside the window.

  Allison closed her eyes and willed sleep to come.

  Rebecca Heitschmidt woke with a gasp. She'd been snuggled up with her husband, enjoying a late-afternoon nap. She blinked twice, and then bolted from the bed, pulling on her shift and tying her bloomers loosely around her belly. She tossed her dress over her head and patted James on the arm.

  “Wake up,” she hissed urgently.

  He mumbled and rolled to his side.

  She grabbed his shoulder and gave a rough shake. “Wake up, James.”

  “Wha…” He yawned hugely. “What is it, Rebecca?”

  “Allison needs me,” she replied. Come on, get up.”

  “Allison? How do you know? Did someone come?”

  Rebecca shook her head sharply. “Listen, James. We need to go NOW! Come ON! Something's wrong, I can feel it.” She tugged on his arm and he rose from the bed, quickly pulling on his underwear over his freckled thighs, and then adding trousers and a shirt.

  “What about the sprout?” he asked, waving toward the room across the hall where Melissa was also napping.

  “Grab her. We need to move!” Rebecca insisted.

  “I don't understand,” James said, taking hold of Rebecca's hand and pulling her to a stop.

  At last, she ceased tugging and fretting, and met her husband's eyes. “Trust me.”

  Even though the train ride from Dodge City to Garden City only took about an hour; to Wesley, it seemed like a year. And for the first time since well before Christmas, the fear of train robbers, which was the source of murmured conversation from many of his fellow passengers, was dismissed from Wesley's mind without a second thought. Unable to remain seated, he'd paced nervously up and down the aisle, upsetting several passengers, until his father snagged his arm and dragged him into a seat.

  “You can't make the train move faster by fussing, son,” Andrew said.

  “Nothing's going to be wrong, you'll see,” Wesley replied. “We'll get there to find Allison making dinner and arguing with Mother, and Melissa playing with her dolls. I've seen it a hundred times.”

  “I'm sure you're right,” Andrew replied. “I'm sure you are.”

  Sailing across the wide-open prairie, the passengers in the train failed to appreciate or even notice the brilliant golden wheat, which stretched to the far horizon on either side.

  There was a lurch as the brake slowly engaged, beginning the gradual process of stopping the hulking iron beast in the as-yet invisible Garden City train station.

  Wesley concentrated on staying calm. Everything would be fine. It had to be fine.

  There was that sound again. Groggy and disoriented, Allison opened her eyes to that strange, kittenish mewling. It sounded as though it were coming from inside the house… and under a pile of fabric. Despite her lethargy, she hauled her aching body from the bed and went to investigate. Blood trailed unnoticed down her thighs as she approached the spare bedroom. Inside, a drawer had been removed from the dresser and filled with blankets. She looked at it, tilting her head. There seemed to be a shape to the blanket. Cautiously, she approached and placed both hands on the textile. There was something underneath. Heart pounding, she yanked back the blanket and stared. One of Melissa's dolls regarded her with expressionless button eyes.

  Allison's lower lip quivered. She considered just sinking to the floor and crying until she died. But before she could really work herself up to it, another squeak sounded in her ears. Now it was coming from downstairs. Oh well, you can always fall apart later. She took a step towards the door of the bedroom, crossed the threshold, and turned to face the stairs. In her weakened state, they looked taller and steeper than normal, and she hesitated to take a step.

  The mewling sounded again. Steeling herself, Allison placed one bare foot on the cold, unwelcoming wood.

  The train took an eternity to come to a stop. Wesley was already waiting at the door, long before the wheels ceased turning and the great hulk's momentum died. Not even waiting for the step to be lowered, he flung himself to the platform and all but flew towards his home, his father following a little behind.

  At the base of the stairs, Allison considered sitting down. She felt bruised all over, but feared she would never be able to rise. She did stop briefly, leaning against the wall, and at last became cognizant of the fact that she was bleeding. Regarding the messy pool at her feet, she shrugged. What did it matter anyway?

  “Allison!” A sharp voice arrested her attention and she stared dumbly at her mother-in-law. “Get back to bed right now. You can't be up yet.”

  Allison's stubbornness hardened into determination. She'd heard all she cared to hear from this woman. “What is that noise?” she demanded.

  “What noise?” Mrs. Fulton didn't look surprised in the least. She met her daughter-in-law's hard-eyed glare with one of her own.

  “It sounds like… like crying,” Allison replied.

  “My dear girl,” Mrs. Fulton drawled, in a tone which completely lacked even a hint of sympathy, “I told you what happened. Your poor son did not survive. If you're hearing crying, you're losing your mind.”

  From outside the door, the quiet squeaking started up again, this time in earnest. Allison turned in that direction, jaw dropping. “What is that?”

  “I don't hear anything,” Mrs. Fulton insisted, but she also ran for the door, escaping before Allison could grab her. Despite the pain in her body, Allison knew something was wrong. Very wrong. What is she doing, trying to make me think I'm crazy? But if that was the case, the baby could still be…

  Allison raced after her mother-in-law, as fast as her legs would carry her. Outside, she could just see the woman's back as she disappeared between two houses. Allison ran after her, heedless of the fact that she was running barefoot through the streets, clad only in a bloody nightgown.

  Her painful steps brought her to the edge of town and beyond, to the wild place between city and prairie; rough uneven ground, with sharp bits of broken grass which tried to impale her feet as she passed. Ahead, she could see the scrawny figure of her adversary running, running straight towards the river. Her movements sometimes revealed a bundle wrapped in a white blanket, clutched precariously in one arm. A soft keening split the air from time to time.

  Oh, God in Heaven, WHAT is this crazy woman doing?

  At the uneven bank, Mrs. Fulton paused, her eyes scanning the swollen torrent. Recent thunderstorms had swelled the Arkansas past its natural banks. It submerged the mud flats which normally formed its borders and rushed around the pylons of the bridge in angry gushes of swirling white water. Mrs. Fulton turned and shot Allison an ugly, triumphant grin before proceeding onto the low, flat planks. Even now the water washed over them. Mrs. Fulton picked her way over the sodden boards to the center and turned again, daring her son's hated wife to follow.

  Allison took a deep breath and approached, her feet sinking deep into the mud before she finally arrived at the bridge. Steeling herself, she stepped onto the first slippery board.

  When Rebecca, James and Melissa arrived at the Fulton house, an eerie silence had descended. The two adults glanced at each other. And then another of those odd flashes of intuition had Rebecca stumbling off the street onto the lawn and skirting the side of the house. She could hear her husband's footsteps as he cracked and shattered the dying grass under his feet.

  Along the west wall, between the Fultons and their next-door neighbors, a small pile of refuse lay waiting to be burned. Mostly leaves and grass clippings, it also contained some smelly kitchen leftovers and a wooden spoon with a broken handle. There was also a strangely shaped bundle wrapped in a blanket. Rebecca stared as the bundle stirred, wriggled. It squealed like a kitten, and then the blanket fell away and a chubby pink fist popped out.

  “Oh my Heavens!”
Rebecca exclaimed, scooping the blanket into her arms and unwrapping it to reveal the red, wrinkled face of a newborn baby.

  James approached. “What on earth, Rebecca?”

  She shook her head. “This must be Allison and Wesley's baby. I can't imagine what this means. James…” She lifted her eyes to her husband. “Who would put a baby in the trash?”

  “Someone unstable. Do you think Allison…”

  “No,” Rebecca cut off her husband with a sharp gesture of her head. “Not Allison. She wanted this baby.” Then her eyes widened. “Oh no. I sent Mrs. Fulton to watch over her. I thought she might be in labor and I didn't want her to be alone.”

  “Rebecca, Mrs. Fulton is more than half crazy,” James pointed out.

  “I know, but my parents are away, and I didn't know what else to do. Wesley told me to get her, if ever Allison needed help and he wasn't available. But… but that still doesn't explain why the baby is in the garbage pile.” Rebecca cuddled the tiny boy to her chest.

  “Come on,” James suggested. “It's cold out here for that little one. Maybe inside we can find the answers.”

  They trailed back around the house to the front door. It stood open. Another curious look passed between husband and wife as they mounted the steps and entered the silent house. It was clear the moment they passed the threshold that no one was inside.

  Melissa scrambled down from James's hip and ran to her room, her little shoes stomping on the stairs as though she weighed twice her tiny size. James slipped his arm around Rebecca's waist and together they approached the staircase. On the bottom tread, a pool of half-congealed blood the size of a small saucer lay, black and vile. Rebecca swallowed. Smaller drops led the way back up to the landing and around the corner to disappear behind a partially closed door. With great trepidation, the couple entered Allison and Wesley's bedroom.

  “Oh, Lord!” Rebecca exclaimed in a harsh whisper. It looked as though a murder had been committed on the bed. The comforter was in a heap, half hanging off the foot of the bed. A wad of ruined towels, completely soaked in blood, lay in the position to have been under a person's pelvis. Beside the bed, another pool of blood was slowly spreading out to fill the grain of the floorboards. Rebecca swallowed convulsively, willing herself neither to vomit nor to cry. She did manage to quell the gorge, but the tears escaped.

  “James, what's happening?” she asked.

  “I don't know, love,” he replied. “But I aim to find out. Come on, let's get out of here.”

  They descended to the parlor, careful not to track the mess around, and Rebecca sank onto the sofa. She carefully unwrapped the blanket and looked down into the face of her nephew.

  “Someone wanted this baby to disappear,” James said. He didn't sit, but rather leaned against the wall beside the front door. “What purpose would that serve?”

  Rebecca spoke without tearing her eyes from the child in her arms. “It would hurt Allison. Mrs. Fulton hates Allison. She would want to hurt her.”

  “I can see that,” James replied. “She would pretend something had happened to the baby to make Allison sad. But then what? Where are they?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “Allison is strong and stubborn. Those blood drops suggest she got out of bed and came down the stairs. Would Mrs. Fulton have tried to lure her somewhere?”

  “To what end?” James asked.

  “I don't know,” Rebecca replied. “I just don't know.”

  At that moment, the door burst inwards and Wesley Fulton barreled into the house, sweaty and breathless.

  “Rebecca? James?” He looked from one to the other, as though lost. “Is everything all right?”

  “No, Wesley, it's not,” James replied. Rebecca was glad he'd taken over. She had no idea what to say. Her pragmatic husband saved the day. “Rebecca took Melissa earlier today, because Allison seemed to be going into labor.” James spared the younger man a disapproving glance. “She called on your mother, who came to watch over your wife. We stopped by a few minutes ago to see how everyone was doing, and we found… we found your son outside in the trash pile.”

  “Son?” Wesley blinked. He approached Rebecca and looked down, first at her and then at the baby. “Oh, gracious. Is he all right?”

  “He seems to be,” Rebecca replied softly. “He's sleeping now. He was cold and crying when we found him.”

  Wesley scooped the baby into his arms. A crooked half-smile spread slowly across his face.

  “Not now, Wes,” James snapped. “Your wife is missing. So is your mother. We have no idea where they've gone, or why they even left the house. Allison just gave birth. She shouldn't even be out of bed.”

  Wesley's head shot up. “Gone?”

  “Yes. There's blood everywhere and the front door was open. Think, man. What kind of mischief could your mother be up to?”

  Another pair of boots pounded up the stairs and a man who could only be Wesley's father burst into the room. “Any kind of mischief,” the man replied grimly.

  “But how do we find them before something terrible happens?” Rebecca demanded. “We have to get my sister back to bed before she injures herself.” If it's not already too late. Please, God let it not be too late.

  “Charlotte can be dangerous and violent. I don't doubt she could kill, if she was angry enough,” Wesley's father said.

  “I think she may already have killed once,” James added. The eyes of the other three adults swiveled to him. “Think. She's unnaturally possessive of you, Wes. So when you married Samantha, didn't she do everything in her power to torment your wife?”

  Wesley nodded.

  “And we've all wondered what the hell Samantha was doing on the river in the winter. Even though she wasn't quite all there, she knew better than that. It might have been suicide, but what if she was lured, tricked? Wouldn't that also make sense?”

  “Oh Lord,” Wesley groaned.

  “Highly likely,” his father added.

  Rebecca nodded. It did make terrible sense. “But Allison is in full possession of her senses. She's strong and she knows Mrs. Fulton isn't trustworthy. Why would she let herself be lured?”

  “Why was her baby in the trash?” James retorted. “What other motivation could get your stubborn sister out of her childbirth bed? Only threat to someone she loves.”

  The three men looked at each other. “Would she risk the river a second time?” James asked.

  “Probably, since the first time succeeded,” Andrew replied.

  Wesley gently returned his son to Rebecca's arms. The sound of his shoes clattering down the porch steps reverberated before she was aware he was moving. Andrew stared for a split second and then pounded after his son.

  “James,” Rebecca snared her husband with a glance. “You bring my sister home safe to me, you promise?”

  “I'll do everything I can,” he replied. And then she was alone with her sister's new baby and stepdaughter. With tears streaming down her face, Rebecca began to pray as she'd never prayed before.

  Over the roar of the water, a faint mewling was still audible, emerging from the squirming bundle clutched in Mrs. Fulton's arms.

  “Mother, please,” Allison said in a calm, soft voice. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting rid of something unwanted,” the older woman sneered. The moisture in the air had caused her steel-colored hair to escape its pins and curl into a wild nimbus around her head. A manic light shone behind the metal frames of her glasses.

  “He's not unwanted,” Allison replied. “I want him.”

  “Wesley doesn't.”

  The truth of those harsh words tore at Allison's heart. When she met the mad eyes again, it was through a veil of tears. “That might be true, but he's my son too. Please, Mrs. Fulton, don't do this. Give me back my baby.”

  Mrs. Fulton regarded Allison for a long moment, head tilted as though considering. She took a deep breath and said, “No, I don't think I will.” Then she tossed the bundle over the waist-high railing, into the swirling riv
er.

  The men raced out between the houses on the edge of town and arrived at the Arkansas River Bridge, just in time to see Wesley's mother toss a white bundle into the river. Time seemed to slow as Wesley took in the terrifying scene of his wife, clad in a red-stained nightgown, take a step towards the railing and then another. Her screams echoed across the landscape, perfectly audible despite the roar of the water. The swollen river churned against the pylons of the bridge and the surrounding rocks. If she went in, there would be no finding her. It felt as though wings had been strapped to his feet, for the burst of previously unknown speed he put on. He all but flew across the muddy, uneven ground toward the bridge. His shoes slipped and skidded on the wet boards as he skated across a film of water to reach his wife just as she placed one foot on the waist-high rail. He snagged her around the waist and dragged her back, tumbling both of them to the ground.

  “Allie, no!” he shouted. She struggled in his grip. He tightened his arms, pinning her. “Stop!”

  “Let me go! Let go!” she shrieked, trying to wrench herself free.

  “Stop it, Allie. Allison, listen to me!”

  “The baby! She threw the baby in the river. Let me go, Wes!” She was heedless, unable to calm herself.

  “She didn't,” he said. “Allison!” He wasn't getting through. Her panic was too great. He sat up, lifting her into his lap. His grip on her shoulders was fierce enough to leave bruises, but he didn't dare let her go. He gave her a little shake. “Allie, listen. The baby is fine. He's at the house with your sister. Mother tricked you. The baby is fine.”

  At last her eyes began to focus. “Wesley?” Though she'd said his name a moment ago, it seemed as though she was realizing for the first time that he was there.

  “Yes, Allison. I'm here.” He relaxed his crushing grip and enfolded her in a warm embrace. “I've got you, love.”